


Blackwaters

by Apfelessig



Category: Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington's Spies
Genre: Autumn, Blacksmithing, Connecticut - Freeform, Cravings, Dreams, M/M, Merman!Caleb, Supernatural Elements, fall - Freeform, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig
Summary: It's a changing season, and under a moon that waxes and wanes, Caleb feels himself pulled in more than one direction after a surprising proposition from Ben.The merman!Caleb fic this year needed! Get your spook on.
Relationships: Abraham Woodhull/Mary Woodhull, Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9
Collections: Turn of the Seasons: Fall 2020





	Blackwaters

**Author's Note:**

> Premise of transformation credited to [Lucyemers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/pseuds/Lucyemers), who was kind enough to let me run with it. And shout out and big thanks to [CrepuscularPetrichor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrepuscularPetrichor/pseuds/CrepuscularPetrichor) for a thorough beta-ing <3

There's what the body wants, and there's what the body needs. For most of his life, the distinction has been negligible: Caleb is generous with himself, and spares little of either. Why bother? Aside from a normal share of heartaches and scars, Caleb has lived well into his 30s by treating every door as one to be opened, every opportunity as one to be seized, and every harvest as one to be enjoyed in full.

And there’s no harvest like in New England.

It’s fall in Mystic, Connecticut, and the wind carries pine scents from miles around. It seems to have always just rained, or be about to rain—the air is thick with the smell. A practical joke of the season that addles the people who live here; drivers crawl forward cautiously on bone dry roads and carry umbrellas that are never opened.

Those who carry the place in their blood, the longtime dwellers, feel it less and scoff and twitch newspapers at the more recent arrivals.

The Woodhulls moved here not long after Caleb did, and with three years under their belt in this new town none of them stand a chance of thawing the icy demeanours of those who can claim generations. It makes no difference though. Home is where you make it, and good company sticks together.

They meet at Abe’s for their monthly BBQ, Ben driving in from out of town as usual. It's a heady smell in the Woodhull backyard, the grill laid thick with steaks and hot dogs. Abe sloshes on more sauce and it hisses and spits.

Caleb finishes his beer and shakes the empty can, heading inside for the recycling bin (Mary has house trained them all). Thomas follows him with the hope all well-behaved children share, eager to witness a safe yet entertaining transgression.

Caleb picks him up and whirls him around like a glider, ignoring the twinge in his back. He plops the youngster down and ruffles his hair.

"Right, squirt.” Caleb ducks down and puts on a conspiratorial tone. "Where does your mum keep the chips?"

Thomas wrinkles his nose. He's eight, far too old for nicknames and Uncle Caleb should know that.

"Paprika or saltanvinnigah?"

"Salt and vinegar," Caleb snorts. "Who eats paprika? Only scallywags and cowboys eat paprika."

Thomas dutifully points to the cupboard and Caleb pops open a full bag, getting in a handful before offering some to his young partner in crime. Thomas shakes his head.

"I'm only allowed one treat a day," he says.

"Aye, that's cause your mother's sensible," Caleb says, spraying crumbs. "You listen to her."

Thomas snaps his head up as someone steps into the kitchen, but it’s only Ben, who stops short when he finds who he’s been looking for. Caleb straightens, munching unapologetically.

“At ease, Private Woodhull,” he says. “He’s with us.”

"Hello, Sprout." Ben's smile is a little unsure. He was great when Sprout was a toddler, but he's been slow to keep up with Thomas' sense of independence. "Your Pa wants to start a bonfire and needs a strong lad to help him. Could you give him a hand?"

Thomas nods mutely and runs off, feet thudding against the floor. Ben moves around the counter as Caleb laps vinegar off his thumb.

"Got these cravings," he says, and Ben chuckles, dropping his head. 

"I wanted to talk to you, um..."

On any given day, Caleb's more observant of people than things, even if those things are deep fried, but the sweet tang of malt vinegar consumes him. Ben's hands briefly wring, unseen.

"I was thinking—I was hoping—there's, um, there's a new pub opening near my place and, well, I know the owner..."

Christ, he could finish the bag here and now.

"It's a brewery," Ben adds, then smiles at the joke, “Brewster, that’s, um…” He shakes his head.

It slowly dawns on Caleb that his friend is acting very strangely.

"Right," he offers.

"I thought you might like to go," Ben says, working backwards.

Caleb distractedly licks a kernel of salt from his lip and catches Ben's eye, who finishes, "With me?"

It's one of life's great mysteries that revelations come in pairs, and Caleb's thoughts race into high gear as he absorbs both the meaning behind the timid blush in Ben's face and what his sudden craving for salt indicates.

"Ah, shite."

If he had slapped Ben it would have not had a more pronounced effect.

"Oh. Wow."

The bag crumples in Caleb's hand. "That's not what I meant—"

"What, 'ah, shite, I'd love to'?" Ben rebounds to prickliness in record time, but the blush in his face darkens.

"I would!"

"You don't have to spare my feelings, we've known each other long enough." He leans just out of Caleb’s greasy-fingered reach, turning his face away. "Was a stupid idea anyway."

It’s something Caleb has always been able to draw out of Ben, even as children: rare glimpses of an aching vulnerability, quickly revealed and hidden again. He’s never put much thought into why, crediting it only to his personal charm and deviousness. He’d never considered Ben had been letting him in, piecewise.

Truly, though, Ben couldn’t have picked a worse time if he’d planned it.

"Knock it off," Caleb chides, gently. "I want to, I _do._ I just need a week, alright?" 

Ben doesn't look convinced and Caleb cups his elbow in his hand, gingerly. "A week."

So help him, if Ben asks one of his questions now, they'll never make it.

"Alright," Ben says, and the moment holds. "A week."

Before either can sabotage things any further, providence intervenes and Mary pops her head into the kitchen.

"We've got hot dogs and s'mores and Thomas wants Caleb to teach him a drinking song," she reports. Her voice drops, wearily. "Please don't."

\---

That night, he dreams.

_The couch in his den, a game on the TV that’s unintelligible, flickering in his periphery. Ben is beside him and Caleb wonders at the quiet. The air is wordless, then senseless, as a curiosity he’s never indulged before issues demands. He stretches his legs apart, an invitation. A warm hand slides up his thigh. Ben leans in close to whisper something that sounds like an ocean in storm—_

Caleb jerks awake, disoriented. As the dream fog recedes, he finds himself painfully hard. He tends to himself quickly. No sense in denying himself here.

After, Caleb stares at the ceiling, a half-imagined feel of Ben’s breath on his ear. He won’t fall asleep again tonight.

\---

Mid-week. Caleb looks up from his anvil as a green Ford Focus crunches over the driveway. Abe, stopping by with the latest project ready for metal finishes. Live edge tables are all the rage, now, and Abe's a dab hand at refurbishing old wood. Their custom furniture sidegig is more of a supplement to their other work than anything steady, but it’s less stifling than brackets and framing.

Abe waves cheerily and plunks a half-completed table down on the gravel before coming over to warm his hands.

"Thank god, my fingers are fit to freeze off."

The forge pumps out enormous heat, and most fall days it's enough to break a sweat after a few hours. Today, though, the heat is sapping Caleb’s energy. He keeps his distance from the forge, letting his pieces sit longer and longer under the flame before taking them out to shape them. _Should stop soon._

"Saves you sawin’ em off," Caleb says, regripping the tongs awkwardly. He wears thick gloves that do nothing for dexterity and would be collecting dust in a corner any other time of the month. He had to put away all the other pieces he was working on. When he went near them, they started to rust.

The metal slug gets a twist, then another before the metal's cooled and needs to go back in the forge. 

Abe saunters over, a professional idly curious about another's profession. He picks up a hammer, weighing it thoughtfully. Having determined to his satisfaction whatever he was questioning, he replaces it with a _thunk_. The small black flakes that litter the table lift and scatter from the puff of air.

"Firescale," Caleb comments. "Iron oxides and stuff."

Abe pinches some to dust between his fingers, then frowns as he tries to brush away a hint of silver.

"Just the one?" Caleb says loudly, nodding to the table on the driveway.

"Yep. Four of your best pins and it's done," Abe says, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

"You'll have 'em Friday. Got other backorders to fill," he adds, by way of excuse.

Abe waves off, unconcerned. The buyer is lined up, they know, but he’ll wait. 

Their casual approach to their side hustle does them no favours and Mary and Ben would have long ago intervened if Caleb and Abe hadn't insisted on doing it their own way, profit be damned. As things stand, there is no reputation to damage with delays.

Abe peers at his friend. "You been sleeping? You look shite."

Another time Caleb might've brushed it off with a crass joke, but he's seen a mirror today and even if his mouth could sell a lie, the seaweed brown bags under his eyes won't.

"Just need some time away. I'm going fishing this week, that'll sort me."

If Abe has a familiarity with lies of necessity, it also makes him sympathetic to them.

He clears his throat.

"Swell's gonna be bad, they say." It's an offer of sorts. _You can tell me._

Caleb doesn't. 

\---

_The dreams change. He meets Ben at a beach, their clothes damp and sheer from the morning dew. They stumble into the surf, gasping and grasping, and then the waves pull at them, dragging them sideways until they tumble into the froth and Caleb wakes, throat parched._

_They’re in a sailboat, huddled beneath a vast white canvas cracking to attention in the wind. They’ve barely reached for each other when the boat tips and the sail smothers them under the surface. Caleb wakes with his sheets wrapped around him, sweat-soaked._

_The next night, Caleb catches Ben’s face before they hit water, sealing the air in his lungs with his lips. They last, for a minute, exchanging the same breath while the waves surge around them. Ben wriggles in his grip, wants to say something, but Caleb holds him tight—_

\---

The day of the full moon, he awakes with a feeling of eels in his belly. He can't stomach breakfast and instead pours a long stream of salt into a glass of water. It sounds like silk, like wind, like the soft scrape of limbs over rock.

The workshop stays closed. The forge would be unbearable today, searing and scalding even at twelve paces. He needs cold. He pops ice cube after ice cube into his brackish drink, listens to each crack and shatter, until they don't anymore. He stirs it with a chopstick and sips it steadily until it’s drained.

Around noon, the cold sweat starts. Caleb wipes his forehead, shaking, then strips down to wipe the rest of himself dry. His skin feels rubbery and he pinches it hard, watching it go white between his fingers.

He stands in front of his mirror, chin tilted up, fingers peeling at the shadows forming lines on his neck. His nails have greyed. He's not sure—did they do that last time? He never did get into the habit of keeping track of the little things. 

Caleb is a creature of action and does not flourish in confined spaces. Still, it’d be madness to let himself be seen now. He paces the house, eventually forcing himself to sit, tapping the couch with his fingers, the floor with his foot. The day, shortened by the season, feels elastic—an hour stretches into two, then another passes seemingly in minutes. The sun sets as he blinks himself back into awareness and he can’t remember a damn thing he was thinking of.

 _Ben_.

_Water._

\---

With dusk begins the first change. The restlessness that has haunted him for days rumbles into a more chilling stillness, like a balanced spinning top, deceptively immobile. All that is secondary falls away and his evening pulls into sharp focus. He knows where he has to be.

It’s a short drive to Bluff Point, no more than twenty minutes if the roads are clear. Along the coast, rush hour can last well past sunset this time of year, and he crawls along Route 1 until he reaches his exit. He flips between radio stations then tunes between stations and turns up the volume until the harsh static fills the truck. White noise.

He crams seaweed strips into his mouth, finishing one pack, then another, tearing at the packaging with green-flecked teeth. His thumb smears the steering wheel with salty oil.

_Close, now._ The shore road takes him past the water and he winds the window down. The salt air hits him like a shot of whisky, redemption and damnation in one. The sluggishness of the week dissipates on the breeze. _Close, close_.

When he turns onto the dirt track in the state park, he switches off his headlights. He doesn't need them.

He parks, and drops first into silence, then darkness as the interior light fades. Caleb sits, head singing, ears rushing and lets the stillness seep in until he can hear only the water. He strips down quickly and walks, following the track through the trees. Branches snatch and whip at him, leaving thin red lines he doesn’t feel.

The beach opens up in pale lunar light that exposes him like a beacon, but the moon’s voyeurism doesn’t concern him. Before him, the Sound stretches away into blackness toward Long Island. The waves spit and churn. _Swell’s gonna be bad, they say_.

He'll never know if it's the moon or the water that pulls him now as he moves haphazardly over the rocky beach, sliding and scraping, hands gripping clumsily over rough edges and slipping on patches of algae. His foot touches water and he hisses between his teeth. 

It's shockingly cold.

He succumbs to it with slow breaths as the chill creeps up his ankles.

As numbness fades to the illusion of warmth, he wades further. The current speaks to him through his skin and tells him news of the ocean as he changes. He cups handfuls of the Sound over his arms, his face, and it drips away in silver droplets that cling and become scales. He flexes, jarringly, then grimaces as thin spines rise up from his back, oily in the moonlight.

As if recognizing their own, a current snares his leg and he trips forward, taken. One last ragged gasp for air before he dives down and gasps for water, the change complete. A black seabass tail flicks once, twice, and Caleb disappears into the dark.

\---

The surge has calmed by mid-morning, and a milky sun weakly pushes through the clouds.

Caleb heads for the shoreline in a few powerful strokes, then lets the waves carry him to a depth where he can stand. There's a figure on the beach, and holds his breath until he recognizes Mary in her woolly bobble hat and oversized fleece, warming her hands around a steaming cup. She gives him a wave, then turns away politely as Caleb staggers out of the surf, naked.

“You’re back. Good,” she says, when he’s within hearing distance. “I brought you a towel.”

It’s large, fluffy and pink and sits on the pebbles in a neat bundle. He wraps it around himself, shivering. He never remembers to bring a towel to the beach. In fact, he’s not sure he’s remembered to bring his—

“Your clothes were on the back seat,” Mary says, pointing blindly behind her in the general direction of a large duffel bag. “Your truck was unlocked, I hope you don’t mind.”

His own personal angel. No, he doesn’t mind. 

He’s loath to pull on his clothes if it means unwrapping the towel, but he can’t very well leave her pointedly examining the horizon line forever. He rubs himself dry vigorously and hops into his sweatpants, pulling on a t-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater. He yanks a fleece beanie over his slick hair and clears his throat.

Mary turns and looks him over matter-of-factly. She’s always been a shrewd one, Mary Woodhull. When it had all started early that summer, he’d been hard pressed to keep it from her watchful eye. And when he’d woken up one morning on the beach, cold and dazed, she’d been there, waiting. He’s never asked her how she knew where to find him.

She holds up a knitted maroon scarf, newly finished by the look of it, and wraps it around his neck.

"Ah, Mary, there's no need for that—"

"Hush," she says. "I thought you might forget one, and that water's not getting any warmer."

"It's the Sound," Caleb protests, feebly, "it's never warm."

Still, when she offers him a cup of steaming apple cider from the thermos, he burns his lips in his eagerness to get it down.

Something he appreciates more than everything else she does for him: she asks no questions. He drinks the cider, and another cupful, and swallows down some of the dry bread and cheese she's brought him. Food he couldn't have stomached a day ago, but now he feels like a starving man. In a day or two, his stomach will match his appetite and he'll be back to normal.

Well. "Normal.”

Mary gives a delicate sniff and rubs her hands together. She's a petite thing, and Caleb wants to stand close to her and buffet her from the winds, though even he has to admit she's a fair sight stronger than he is right now, pale as death and shaking like a leaf.

"Ben's been worried," Mary says, suddenly.

Caleb nods. "I need to call him."

"He's been waiting a long time to tell you," she says, and of course she knows what passed in her kitchen that day.

"I'll call him."

The cider works its magic and Caleb starts feeling halfway human again, able to face the drive back home. 

“Caleb,” Mary says, and pauses. Competing loyalties war on her face before she simply says, “Do be careful.”

“Always am,” Caleb says, pinching her chin, playfully.

It’s only later, when he gives her a cheery wave as they part ways on the state highway, that he wonders what exactly she meant.

\---

A day later, Caleb hears his heart pound as he waits on Ben's porch. The stained glass door opens, and Ben looks a little taken aback to see him there, uninvited.

"I didn't know you were coming by," he says, and of course he didn't. Caleb had only called to see if he'd be around, not to make any plans.

"Thought I'd surprise you."

Ben nods to himself. Caleb does do that. 

"I wasn't sure you still wanted to," he says, and it's as forthright as he gets.

Caleb steps forward, feeling the warmth from inside seep over the door's threshold.

"I said I needed a week, that's all."

"Yeah, you did."

The air is thick and fragrant. Ben must be cooking. Soup, maybe, something warm and earthy. It's a heady smell, and Caleb feels more than one urge come into focus.

"You gonna leave me standing out here?" Caleb asks, more nervous than he wants to be, and Ben jolts to, _no, of course not..._ Caleb brushes the beanie from his head, dislodging a few silver scales that drift to the porch behind him. He hesitates in the doorway—a reflex he can't place—but Ben gives him a timid smile, and he enters Ben's home and closes the door.

It is a strange thing to make peace with, the way saltwater consumes him once a month. But if it can lay claim to him, then he feels right in laying this claim to Ben. After all, Caleb has spent a lifetime knowing no distinction between what he wants and what he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you thought I wouldn't have research notes for a spooky fic? Check out [this incredible montage](https://www.hecreature.no/under-overflaten) by Norwegian artist, dancer and choreographer [Thomas Voll](https://www.thomasofnorway.com/), particularly [this one](https://www.hecreature.no/under-overflaten?pgid=ka9fdobj-710ef8f3-ecb1-46c5-a87f-86c95f147ab4) which served as a major inspiration for the story.
> 
> Mystic and Bluff Point are real places in Connecticut chosen after an extensive hunt along the Connecticut coastline on GoogleMaps with the help of [CrepuscularPetrichor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrepuscularPetrichor/pseuds/CrepuscularPetrichor), who kindly indulged me after pointing out that Connecticut doesn't, in fact, have the rocky cliffs I included in an earlier draft.


End file.
